


The Way to Eden

by trill_gutterbug



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Defamation of Bear Grylls, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, In Which Trill Continues to Name Fics after Star Trek Episodes Because Why the Eff Not, M/M, Shockingly Not Smut Tho, This is Really Self-Indulgent Sorry I'm Not Sorry, and there's definitely a bit of gross romanticising of abusive behaviours here ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 13:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7978567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Make him give the password,” Jack says. “See if he remembers it.”</p>
<p>The asset doesn’t smile, but the way he leans his head toward the door as Brock stomps up the front stairs is not entirely without a subtle eagerness that Jack can appreciate. No one gives the asset a harder time than Brock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way to Eden

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дорога на Эдем](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10728369) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



Jack has pretty much resigned himself to the reality of Brock being dead in a ditch somewhere by the time he hears a truck pull up outside the house. A pair of yellow headlights swing across the curtains, picking out their archaic floral pattern, and there’s a crunch of tires like the driver noticed too late the property’s decorative border of potted flowers and gnomes.

Jack stands up from the couch, muting the boxy tv and reaching for his rifle, but the asset is already three steps ahead of him, appearing out of the back bedroom with a pistol in one hand and the other resting over his belt of knives. He meets Jack’s eye from the shadow of the doorway, head cocked warily.

“Probably Commander Rumlow,” Jack says. He doesn’t want to go to the window to check, just in case it’s not.

The asset nods. He crosses the narrow living room, positioning himself in the shadow between the door and the coat closet. Outside, the truck shuts off. A door slams. Someone says, “--the fuck?” which is Brock seeing the broken gnomes.

Jack rolls his eyes and puts his rifle down. “Let him in,” he tells the asset. And then, “Actually, wait.”

The asset pauses mid-step toward the door, cocking a look over his shoulder.

“Make him give the password,” Jack says. “See if he remembers it.”

The asset doesn’t smile, but the way he leans his head toward the door as Brock stomps up the front stairs is not entirely without a subtle eagerness that Jack can appreciate. No one gives the asset a harder time than Brock.

Brock tries the knob first, but even if it had opened for him, there are about a dozen other locks on the door that Jack had been sure to engage when he and the asset dragged their sorry asses inside six hours ago. He tries knocking next, three hard whacks with his fist. Jack can visualize perfectly the pissy furrow between his brows and the irritated set of his boots.

“Who is it?” Jack calls. He sits down on the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

“It’s me.” It sounds like Brock’s at least trying to keep his voice down, which is good since it’s two in the morning and there are sleeping suburban neighbors forty feet away in every direction.

“Sorry, I don’t know any ‘me,’” says Jack. “No one I know would have left me sitting on my thumb all day without calling at check-in time.”

“Oh, come on!” There’s a shuffle like Brock is trying to lean off the porch to look in the window, but Jack knows it’s too far for him, the short stack of pancakes. “I lost the relay, I couldn’t call.”

Jack crosses one ankle over the other and picks up the tv remote. He’s not really mad; he knows Brock would have called if he could. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’d sat here alone for hours, more and more convinced as the day wore on that Brock hadn’t made it out of Alameda at all. He’s still sort of shaking off the nausea that had kept him awake watching some horrible movie about zombie nurses and chewing his nails to the quick.

“What’s the password?” he asks.

There’s a long pause from the other side of the door. Jack smirks to himself and switches the channel, looking for a food station. Brock hates cooking shows.

“Uh,” says Brock. “Hold on…”

Jack sees the asset glance over his shoulder. He looks mildly imploring, like Brock’s annoyance is giving him a bellyache. Jack ignores him. “Hope you got a blanket in that truck,” he calls.

“Wait, wait,” Brock says. Jack hears him snapping his fingers. “Something about-- don’t start wars in Asia?”

Jack sighs. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad.

“Or-- never get in a-- no, uh. Land something...”

Jack hooks a thumb at the asset, who’s watching him like Jack’s about to give him the go-ahead on a big rawbone steak. “Just let him in.”

The asset flips all dozen locks in record time, both hands going at once, and yanks open the door. Jack sees Brock framed under the pale porchlight, wearing civvies with a duffel by his feet.

“Hey,” Brock says. “Move.”

The asset obeys immediately, stepping sideways, and Brock brushes past him and throws his bag on the floor. “Thanks for that, asshole,” he says to Jack, unzipping his jacket. “That your idea of keeping a low profile?”

Jack shrugs. He’s found the food network, where someone appears to be boiling haggis on a gas stove. It’s way better looking than Brock’s face, right now. “Maybe you should have thought of that earlier.”

“Goddamn,” Brock mutters. “You’re like the fucking wife I never wanted.” He toes off his shoes and kicks them into the nearest corner. “There any food, or did you flush it down the shitter when you heard me coming?”

“In the fridge,” Jack tells him. “Chicken.”

“Thank fucking Christ, I’m starving.”

Brock heads toward the kitchen, turning on lights as he goes, and Jack twists around to watch him. He’s down to a black t-shirt and blue jeans, which is standard enough, but his feet are bare and his hair is fluffy, sticking up in the back.

“You go for a swim?” Jack asks. From the corner of his eye, he sees the asset drift in, trailing Brock toward the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Brock says. “That’s where I lost the relay. In the bottom of the fucking river, while I was getting fucking shot at.”

Jack chews the inside of his cheek. “What else did you lose?”

Brock opens the fridge and shoots him a dirty look, tempered by a self-important quirk of the mouth. “Nothing. Dropped off the package, no problem.”

“Good.”

Brock bends over to rummage in the fridge, although there’s nothing much in there besides the chicken, a bottle of orange juice Jack had picked up at a gas station, and a jar of questionable mustard. Jack’s not sure when this safehouse was used last, but he’s pretty sure he’s never seen bottled mustard that particular shade of beige before either way. He turns back to the tv. It’s not an interesting show, although he tends to have a pretty high tolerance when it comes to Anthony Bourdain, and he’s distracted a couple minutes later by a murmur of voices from the kitchen. He looks over the back of the couch again.

Brock is leaning his hip against the counter, holding a plate of chicken bones in one hand, picking off bits of meat with the other. The asset is about as close to him as a very limited definition of personal space will allow, shoulders low and head ducked like an earnest puppy. As Jack watches, Brock tears off a piece of chicken and holds it out. The asset leans in to take it with his mouth. Brock lets him chew and swallow, and then slips his fingers in. The asset sucks them clean and opens up for more. Brock chews, watching him, and feeds him another strip. He wipes grease off the asset’s bottom lip with his thumb, grinning. Jack thinks he hears him say, “Miss me?”

The asset tips his head in a way that might mean either ‘fuck you’ or ‘of course.’

“Were you good today?” Brock’s voice is low, like maybe he thinks he’s being subtle, but there’s nothing subtle about the way he’s looking straight at the asset’s mouth.

“Jesus,” Jack mutters. His stomach flips over. He watches the asset nod, shoulders firming up like he’s proud of himself.

Brock grins and sticks more meat between his teeth, chews with his mouth open. Jack watches him nudge the asset’s ankle with his foot. “Jack let you drive the car?”

The asset shakes his head. His hair is greasy, tide back sloppily at the base of his neck, but he never stinks much, even after a day running around in leather combat gear. It’s a fucking gift, having been stuck in the car with him for three hours earlier. And hell no Jack hadn’t let him drive, he’s seen how the asset flies planes and operates tanks; like someone gave him ten minutes with the owner’s manual and then threw him into combat-- technically correct, but brutal as shit. The car HQ provided them is a manual and Jack hadn’t felt like dealing with a burnt-out clutch or a dropped tranny on the side of the freeway.

“Aw,” Brock says, mocking, “Mama didn’t want you eatin’ asphalt?”

“I’m not his fucking mom,” Jack snaps. He doesn’t mean to say it, doesn’t want Brock thinking he’s been eavesdropping, but he can’t help it. No way is Brock dragging him into this creepy mess.

The asset glances at him, blank-faced. Brock shakes his head, picking through the bones on his plate. “Coulda fooled me, Mrs. Rollins.”

Jack takes a deep breath and curls his fist between the couch cushions so he won’t get up and punch the smirk right off Brock’s stupid goddamn face. Why the fuck had he been so worried about Brock eating shit, anyway? Brock could survive forever on sheer pigheaded assholery alone, regardless of who was trying to shoot him or drown him.

“Let him drive the truck tomorrow,” Jack says. “Let’s see how far you make it.”

“Aw.” Brock holds out a bit of chicken between his fingertips, but when the asset leans in for it he pulls it back. “You’d drive good for me, wouldn’t you?”

The asset hesitates, his head tipped toward the chicken. “I know how to drive,” he says.

Brock lifts his eyebrow at Jack, a ‘See?’ sort of gesture. His stupid fluffy hair is falling down over his forehead, and the curve of his wrist, holding the chicken just out of the asset’s reach, makes Jack’s stomach do another slow roll. He doesn’t want it-- he doesn’t. But the narrow space between Brock’s hand and the square of the asset’s jaw make him want _something_. Probably violence.

“Shotgun picks music, though,” Brock says. He touches the chicken against the asset’s bottom lip and pulls it away again. He grins when the asset grabs his wrist and yanks it close, takes the meat right out of Brock’s fingers with his mouth. Brock’s fingers curl against the underside of the asset’s chin, cupping it. “You have shit taste in music.”

The asset chews, looking at Brock steadily, and swallows. He lets go of Brock’s wrist. “I like jazz,” he says.

Jack groans, palming his forehead. “Jesus, Brock, when did you--”

“It was on the radio!” Brock snaps. “It’s not like I--”

“It’s good for dancing,” the asset finishes.

Brock and Jack both jerk to look at him.

“Uh,” says Jack.

“Now that I _definitely_ didn’t show him,” Brock says.  

The asset stares back at them, eyes flickering. There’s a tiny wrinkle between his brows, like he can’t figure out why they’re looking at him. He’s still wearing his combat boots, and they squeak against the linoleum when he twists his hips an inch to the left, and then the right. “Dancing?” he says, and Jack doesn’t think he’s imagining the little edge of mockery to the word.

“Yeah, we get it,” says Brock, grabbing the asset’s belt. “Cut that out.” He doesn’t let go right away, even after the asset subsides obediently, and Jack watches the way Brock’s thumb digs just a little under the edge of the asset’s waistband.

Jack takes a breath and puts his focus squarely back on the tv.

A minute later, an ominously long minute later, Brock drops down next to him on the couch, still holding the plate of chicken. He sticks his bare feet up on the coffee table next to Jack’s. “The fuck you watching,” he mutters, reaching for the remote. Jack blocks his hand with a forearm and gets an elbow to the ribs. It doesn’t wind him, but it does hurt, and Brock darts in under his guard and snags the remote. It’s just Jack’s luck that fucking Bear Grylls is on tv tonight. The only thing Brock enjoys more than mocking that douchebag mercilessly is actually watching his dumbfuck show.

“Look at this motherfucker,” Brock sneers, grinning. “Think he’s drunk his own piss yet?”

Jack doesn’t answer, because Brock doesn’t actually need an answer. (Plus yeah. Of course Grylls has already drunk his own piss. The show’s been running for at least seven minutes.)

The asset appears at the end of the couch before the first commercial break, silent and still like he’s materialized out of the ether. Jack tries to ignore him, but Brock says, “What are you all dressed up for, anyway?”

There’s a pause. “Lieutenant Commander Rollins said to remain combat ready.”

Rollins glances up. The asset’s still got his tac suit on, miles of buckles and leather and holsters, his knives on his hips. “Oh, yeah, forgot about that. You can strip off.”

The asset takes a step back, angling for the room where his gear is stashed, but Brock puts out a hand to stop him, says, “Come here.”

Jack looks at the tv again, but he sees out of the corner of his eye how Brock pulls the asset down to kneel next to him, starts undoing the buckles at his back. The whole setup has always struck Jack as absurd: what’s the point of gear you can barely get out of yourself? He’s seen the asset do it, but he’s also pretty sure the asset’s double-jointed.

Brock gets him peeled down to pants and tank top in a couple minutes, tossing the suit over the back of the couch. Jack side-eyes the seam of the metal arm, the thickness of muscle in the asset’s right arm. He watches the asset hold up his hands for Brock to undo his gloves, even though he could easily do it himself.

“Go grab the whiskey out of my bag,” Brock says when he’s done, and the asset gets to his feet and heads off to obey.

Jack groans, rolling his eyes. “Come on, we’re mid-mission.”

“Stick it up your ass,” Brock replies. Over his shoulder, he says, “And a glass.”

~*~

An hour later, Brock finishes his fourth glass and switches the channel to some dumbfuck reality fishing show. Jack has never less wanted to watch something in his entire life. He’s half-asleep anyway, and he’s getting a crick in his neck. He sits upright with a groan. “I’m turning in.”

Brock grunts, looking half-asleep himself. He’s slumped so far into the couch he’s nearly laying flat. The asset’s kneeling beside him again, has been for a while, shoulder pressed against Brock’s knee, and Brock’s left hand is curled into his hair, fingers rubbing slow at the base of his neck.

There are three bedrooms, so Jack takes the one farthest from the front door. For one thing, the asset is a better line of defense than both Jack and Brock put together, and for another, there’s a streetlight that shines right in the other two rooms’ windows, and Jack’s a finicky sleeper. He leaves the door cracked, just in case.

Because it doesn’t take a whole lot to wake him up at the best of times, much less with the potential of hostiles on their tail, when there’s a heavy thump like a body hitting the floor a while later, it sends him bolt upright. He grabs his gun off the nightstand and slips out of bed, quiet, puts his back to the wall by the door. The tv is still flickering in the living room, he can see the glow. It’s probably nothing, just Brock finally passed out face-first onto the coffee table, but Jack’s heart is still pounding with ready adrenaline as he eases open the door.

He waits for his eyes to adjust, finger on the safety. He’s got a clear line of sight into the living room, the other two bedroom doors off to his right, but the back of the couch is in the way. He can’t see anyone. He eases into the hallway, sock feet on the carpet.

Halfway to the living room, he hears a noise. A familiar noise. A sex noise.

All the tense air in his lungs deflates. “Goddamnit,” he hisses, jamming the gun down the back of his pants. Fucking Brock anyway, getting his drunk rocks off when he should be sleeping. The whole fucking team’s got that problem where the asset’s concerned, like they’ve never seen a pretty face and a nice ass before. Jack doesn’t get it, never has; even the straight guys have taken their turn on him. The very thought makes Jack’s skin crawl. He’s never seen the appeal, but he figures that’s the sort of thing that comes out of a man when faced with something that can’t say no.

He doesn’t especially want to see what’s going on, but he’s already most of the way there, and healthy paranoia demands that he double-check every potential threat. He takes another silent step, and another.

They’re on the floor in front of the couch. The thump had been the coffee table tipping over. Jack stands there staring for a long moment. The tv’s turned down low, lighting up the room with off-blue shadows, and he’s pretty tired, but none of that accounts for the way the asset’s flat on his back with Brock between his legs, sucking his dick.

The asset’s head is thrown back, hair loose on the carpet. His eyes are shut, his mouth open, and his right hand is on Brock’s neck, riding the bob of his head. For a split second, Jack has the crazy idea that maybe the asset is making Brock do this, overpowered him and put him on his knees. But then Brock pulls off with a long wet sound and the asset whines like a puppy, squirming, and Brock cuffs an arm across his hips, holding him down. He murmurs something, too quiet for Jack to hear, and the asset nods. His eyes are still closed, jaw working. His nostrils flare, chest heaving. The hand on Brock’s neck tightens, squeezes, lets go.

Brock sits up, his back sparing Jack the sight of the asset’s hard dick, and leans forward on one hand. Jack turns away when Brock ducks to kiss the asset.

It’s three in the morning. He can’t handle this shit.

~*~

In the morning, Jack takes the truck.

Brock yells after him in protest, on the porch still with his duffel over one shoulder. The asset’s at his side, in plainclothes with his hair tied up. Jack refuses to acknowledge how the asset has two fingers hooked into Brock’s belt loop. He won’t look at the way Brock’s turned subtly toward him, the line of his shoulder and arm softened like a protective parenthese.

If he doesn’t see it, it isn’t happening.

Jack hangs an arm out the window as he peels down the driveway, and flips them both the bird.

They’ll catch up eventually.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Graveyard Alive: A Zombie Nurse in Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pCE0vhuRbIM) is a real movie and it's, uh.... great.


End file.
